


Got You

by classicallybookish



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Caretaking, F/M, Fluff, NSFW, Oral Sex, Past Abuse, Sex Pollen, Should I warn for a vomit scene? Maybe don't read if you're easily queasy?, Smut, Steve is a slut for consent, cursing, romantic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-18
Updated: 2020-01-18
Packaged: 2021-02-27 07:41:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22293493
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/classicallybookish/pseuds/classicallybookish
Summary: You have an unfortunate run-in with sex pollen; Steve Rogers vows to see you through it, no matter your traumatic past.
Relationships: Steve Rogers/Reader
Comments: 13
Kudos: 226





	Got You

**Author's Note:**

> As noted in the tags, there are mentions of the reader being abused by an ex-boyfriend, so please avoid if the content may be triggering for you. Otherwise, I hope this different take on sex pollen intrigues you!

“Remind me again why I’m the one stuck being lookout?” Steve grumbles from his position outside the nondescript Hydra lab you had broken into moments before. From the outside there wasn’t anything suspicious about the place, it appeared to be a typical warehouse. Beneath lay a complex labyrinth of labs, offices, training areas that had recently been evacuated due to a certain computer virus a certain someone had released into their network.

Your voice is low, detached through the communications system. “Because this is a one-person job - really, you didn’t even need to tag along. It’s a boring night at the office.”

“Infiltrating enemy headquarters to steal something isn’t exactly low-risk.”

“Relax, Cap, this wing is deserted. All you have to do is take a leap, break down a few doors, and you’re here to the rescue if need be. Besides, I’ll be done in a jiffy.”

“Why do you always assume there’s property damage when I’m on the job?”

“When’s the last time you didn’t have to fill out liability paperwork?”

“Touche,” he mutters, rubbing his hands together against the winter chill. “I feel the need to clarify that all of those damages led to successful missions.”

“Hm, one kiss and you get a little mouthy, huh?”

The two of you had grown close over the last year; first as teammates, then as friends. You had been distant at the start, just as he had. Slowly, agonizingly - blood, sweat, and tears were definitely involved - walls were dismantled. A current of trust ran between you, one which caught Steve by surprise. As dense as he could be about matters of the heart, suspicions of his blossoming romantic feelings being mutual had proven true with a simple kiss.

And you, being you, hadn’t let that be the end of the conversation. Scared-of-emotion-Rogers would’ve been happy to let a kiss be a kiss and see what naturally followed. But that wouldn’t fly with you. He’d been pushed to sit on the nearest flat surface to sit as audience to your directness. The memory danced across his mind like it was brand new. 

_You paced in front of him, Avengers uniform still stained with dirt and blood, maintaining eye contact - he was reminded why you were such an effective interrogator._

_‘I like you, Steve. A lot. I think you know enough about me by now to know that that’s a big statement. I’m too tired and busy to deal with the ‘are we or aren’t we’ bullshit. If you want it to be just one kiss, that’s fine. But I’d like to find out if there’s something more to this because you’re the first person in years I’ve felt this connected to. So I’ll sit here on this couch and stare at you until you tell me how you feel, one way or the other.’_

_He had only blinked at you as you’d dropped onto the sofa, arms crossed, gaze intense. Steve couldn’t stop the dumb smile from spreading on his face. Any other person, any other decade, he would’ve clammed up and refused to speak. But he knew how he felt about you deep down. Verbalizing that was one of the most difficult challenges he had to face - but he was glad he had._

_You were taking it slow, but with intention as opposed to floating, is the way he recalls you putting it. Whatever it was, it was real and made Steve’s life sunnier._

Steve hears you swear under your breath. 

“Status?”

“I think someone else is here.” 

“Think or know?”

“Voices,” you mutter. Your stride quickens right before he makes out door hinges squeaking once, then twice. Steve attempts to wait patiently for an update. Two minutes of silence pass. 

A deafening crash echoes in Steve’s ears, startling him to attention. “You okay?” His voice floats away into the quiet night air. Only clattering and coughing answer the question. He already has a hand poised against the entrance when he asks, “Do I need to move in?”

Your hoarse whisper stops him from throwing a shoulder into the steel door. “No, no, I’m okay. There’s no light in here - I tripped over something and fell on my ass. Kicked up a lot of dust, think I broke whatever I tripped over.” Another coughing fit overtakes you and Steve winces. “Ah, shit,” your hushed tone barely comes over the mics.

“What?”

A door knob rattles before you sigh in defeat. “I’m locked in a closet.”

“On my way.”

“East wall. And keep this to yourself, Sam would never let me hear the end of it.”

From his preliminary sweep, Steve confirms the wing was, indeed, empty. The fluorescent lamps swinging overhead despite the lack of air flow does little to relax him as he jogs the concrete hallway, tracking your earpiece’s location on a Stark-provided wristband.

Beneath his grip, the closet’s handle crumbles and he hauls the door open. The smart comment he’d prepared dies on his tongue as you step into the light, a hand pressed against your forehead.

“Woah, you okay?”

Your stilted gait catches him by surprise as you give an unconvincing - “I’m fine, just uh- a little disoriented.”

Both of you spare a glance into the closet, taking note of the cleaning supplies, hazmat suits, and the potted plant that you had unintentionally destroyed. Shards of clay were visible amongst the scattered soil - _bright red, that’s strange -_ and vivid green vines covering the entire floor. 

A weak snort leaves you. “Who keeps a plant in a closet? Hydra is dumber than we give them credit for.”

“You got the goods?”

You hold up a briefcase in an affirmative. 

“Let’s get out of here.”

Walking behind you, the bottom half of your disguise - a fake lab coat that was by no means clever - catches Steve’s eye; he’s fairly certain it hadn’t been stained pink when you left. “You brush up against something in the lab?”

“Huh?” You twist to check your backside. “That’s weird, the only thing that I ran into was the dust or soil or whatever. . . but why the hell is it pink?” 

Before you finish your question, you stumble a few steps and in a flash, Steve’s arm wraps around your waist. “I’ve got you.”

Eyes focused on the floor in an attempt to regain your balance you sheepishly say, “Sorry, I don’t know what’s up with me. Guess it’s just been a long day.”

Leaning heavily on Steve’s arm, you make it the couple of blocks to the car and sink into your seat. Your eyes drift shut as Steve rounds the car to the driver’s side, throwing the car into gear and speeding off in the direction of the Compound.

Two minutes down the road you startle Steve with the sudden, forceful removal of the stained coat. You throw it behind you with disdain. While it may be subconscious, Steve notices the urgency with which you scratch at your forearms.

Another body-wracking cough has him asking, “You that allergic to dust?”

“Don’t need your sass, Rogers.” You flick the AC dial to blast cold air, turning the vents directly onto your face. 

Steve couldn’t exactly put a finger on what was wrong, but a shrouded answer sounded like an alarm bell distantly in his mind. He could hear familiar echoes, but nothing clear. 

Just as he opens his mouth to ask about the sweat pooling on your brow, you groan. 

“I’m-I’m gonna puke.”

It takes Steve a moment to mentally shift gears. “Okay, lemme pull over-“

“Nope, it’s happening now-“

“Gym bag, seat behind you.”

The moment the bag is in your hands you retch, the unpleasant sound filling the car. 

“Hang on.” Steve pulls off the highway, ignoring angry honks of vehicles he cut off in the process. The car is barely parked before he’s out his door and has opened yours, kneeling down to take stock of your condition. 

Shakily you turn in your seat so your feet are crowding Steve’s on the pavement. “I am so sorry, that was disgusting,” you sniff, wiping a corner of your mouth with your sleeve. “Sorry I ruined your bag.”

“Don’t be, I was due for a new one. Besides, those’re Bucky’s clothes.”

Your laugh briefly lifts Steve’s spirits until your quick change in expression sends a chill down his spine. “Steve,” you ask lowly. 

“What is it?”

“Why is my vomit hot pink?”

Before he can even try to answer, your chest heaves again and your face disappears into the bag. Steve pulls your hair away from your face, the warning siren in his brain growing louder. Holding the back of his hand against your forehead, he hates that his suspicion of a fever was confirmed - a high one. 

Something was wrong. 

-x-

By the time Steve gets you out of the car and into the Compound, you’d begun shaking so much that he was bearing the majority of your weight. 

He pulls you into the elevator and asks FRIDAY to take you to the medical facilities. You cling to the front of his uniform, forehead thumping softly into his chest. Steve could feel your fear, something he’d rarely encountered before and he’d be lying if he said it didn’t make him more than a little uneasy.

“I’m scared.” Your voice is small, strangled almost.

He whispers your name. “You’re going to be all right. I promise.”

The elevator doors slide open and he urges you go step forward. Instantaneously, your body language changes - spine shooting ramrod-straight, you practically jump to get away from him. 

But the moment is lost when Dr. Cho and her team flock to the two of you, immediately beginning their assessments while shooing Steve to the side. Thanks to his heads up from the road, the group had been ready to receive them. Natasha pushes herself off the nearest wall and is by his side, her silent yet stalwart support comforting. The teammates fall into perfect step, trailing after the convoy that had lifted you onto a gurney and whisked you through private doors for testing.

An hour later, Helen exits the exam room where you lay, looking more ill with each second that passes.

“Captain, could you give me a condensed version of what happened? You said she may have been exposed to a toxin?”

Steve relayed what he knew, calling upon every detail, including the red soil - Helen took dutiful notes on her tablet. 

“Like I said, I didn’t have eyes on her the whole time, so I don’t know what else she could have been in contact with.”

“And her symptoms have been escalating steadily?”

“Yes. At first she was just dizzy and by the time we got here I was practically carrying her. Right as we got off the elevator, she flinched away from me like just me touching hurt. That was the first time that’d happened, almost like her skin was hyper-sensitive.”

“That was not part of our preliminary findings but we will keep an eye out for it. Do you have a sample of her vomit?”

“In the car. And the coat she was wearing when she may have been exposed to the substance, if that’s helpful.”

Cho nods her head to an out-of-sight nurse whose footsteps take them in the direction of the garage. It wasn't until that moment that Steve wasn’t sure if he’d taken the keys out or even turned off the engine, he’d been so focused on getting you to help. 

“What the hell happened in there?” Natasha wonders aloud. 

A sharp cry sounds from your room and the trio rushes in. You’re dripping with sweat, struggling to drag air into your lungs as you dig your fists into the sheets.

Steve reaches out a hand to soothe you. To his shock, you scramble to the far corner of the bed, a sob escaping your throat. “No, no, no - please don’t touch me!”

Dr. Cho begins in a gentle, yet stern tone. “I’m sorry, but if we want to find out how to help you, we must have more samples. I have to draw some more blood, the tests I’ve run have come back negative-”

Shaking your head back and forth, you stop her. “That’s fine Doc, that’s not what I. . . that’s fine.”

“Hon, can you describe how you’re feeling? Anything you think might be of relief?” Natasha approaches you as she would a cornered animal, slowly, and with her hands up.

“I. . . I. . .” Tears drive down your face forcefully, another sob cutting you off. Much to Steve’s chagrin, Natasha taking one of your hands had no negative affect on you. With hope that you’d calmed down, he takes another step inside the room.

Panicked eyes flash to his and your entire body seizes up again.

“Steve, I think you need to leave.”

“But I-”

“Not the time for a bruised ego, get out.” Natasha grits, jerking her head to the exit.

Dismayed, he rushes out the door. A quick look over his shoulder through the glass wall shows that you had settled down somewhat. He watches from his claimed spot as you start talking a mile a minute to Nat and Dr. Cho, hands covering your face as if you were embarrassed. Several times you can’t make out words, squeezing your eyes shut from some kind of sudden cramp and the tears would return.

Helen moves to draw a curtain around your bedside - either for private tests or his prying eyes, he’s left to wonder.

But Natasha doesn’t appear - or wasn’t kicked out. He has to fight not to let your utter repulsion cut deep. Had he done something wrong? He’d only tried to help - was there something that he’d said in the midst of our episode?

It was just whatever had gotten into your system, he told himself over and over. Eventually his concern for you outweighs his own wounds as he paces the hallway what must have been over a hundred times. Waiting, waiting, waiting. He hated anything resembling hospitals - even though it was on Compound grounds, the wing still made him on-edge.

Just as he was taking the first step to bust down the door and demand answers, Natasha exits your room. Her head sweeps along the corridor until her green eyes land on him.

“What the f-”

“Come with me,” she grabs his arm before he could finish his predictable sentiment. Allowing himself to be herded into an adjacent exam room, she shuts the door and leans against it, letting out a long breath. Shoulders slumped, head hanging limply, Natasha continues to breathe for several more beats. The last time Steve had seen her so worried was when Clint was recovering from the spell of mind control all those years ago. With no small amount of shame, it dawns on him that he’s not the only one who cares for you.

“You’re scaring me Nat, is she okay?”

“Okay isn’t the word I would use. Cho has reached a diagnosis.”

“Which is?”

Lifting her head, she huffs in disbelief. “Assuming you’ve read the briefs on Hydra’s attempts at creating a nature-based chemical to induce feelings of increased libido?”

He blinks. “Are you telling me she got hit with sex pollen?” At her nod, he curses. “And Doc is sure?”

“99.9%.”

“Okay. Okay. Wow. Okay. So what do we do?”

“She’s refusing. . . treatment.”

“Meaning?” Steve wishes he had more control over his harsh tone, but desperation for your sake was beginning to take over.

“Promise me we can have this conversation without embarrassment on your part, grandpa?”

“Contrary to popular belief, I’m not a prude.”

“Cho says the dangerous aspect of the pollen is the rate which the toxin moves through the body. Her fever is going to get dangerously high quickly unless she maintains a consistently high level of endorphins until it runs through her system.”

“She needs to get off, got it. Can’t she,” Steve clears his throat, intent on not blushing, “fight it herself?”

One of Natasha’s masterfully skilled hands rubs across her forehead. “Yes, but she is in a tremendous amount of pain, moving slow. Eventually the fever will make her delirious and she won’t physically be able to get the job done.”

“Alright, so she needs help. Where would we even begin to find someone who’d be willing to do that - let alone someone she’d consent to?”

“That’s the problem. We asked her and she was adamant that no one was to help.”

A scoff of derision escapes him. “Well that’s just fucking stupid, doesn’t that stuff make people extra horny to the point where they can’t control themselves? We’ve just gotta-”

“Steve-”

“No, she’s being bullheaded and stubborn and she could fucking die so we have to-”

“Steve-”

“I’m going to talk to her.”

Nat draws herself up to her full height in front of the door and an expression that can only be described as ‘murder’ takes residence on her face. “No you are not.”

“I can’t make a plan if I don’t have all the facts.” He knows they could stand here exchanging glares all night, but your life was hanging in the balance.

She looks down briefly, weighing options unknown to Steve in her mind.

“Nat, come on. What am I missing?”

“She told me this in confidence, but I’d say this counts as extenuating circumstances. Can you sit down? You’re not going to take this well.”

Steve complies out of exasperation, attempting to ignore the dread swirling in his gut. “Tell me.”

“Her ex-boyfriend was abusive.”

Steve’s jaw twitches.

“She would never use those words, but he was. From what little she has told me, the last few months of the relationship were especially rough. While that was over two years ago, the emotional wounds are still raw. She hasn’t been intimate since. The just told me the idea of having sex terrifies her, let alone the idea of her life depending on it. She is distraught and scared, but she hasn’t wavered. I don’t know what to do,” she adds quietly.

Steve releases his hands from the arms of the chair, realizing they were now dented from his iron grip while he attempted to control his breathing.

“Steve,” Natasha whispers. “She cares for you. She likes you. You’re the first person she’s been interested in since. . . him. . . and she trusts you. She can’t survive this alone. Would you be willing to. . .”

“To- wha- I mean.” 

His friend raises an eyebrow at him. 

_Oh._

The tactician in him races through dozens of scenarios in seconds. As if it would beat out of his chest, his heart races too. “Only if she agrees.”

“Okay. I’ll go talk to her. Stay here.”

-x-

 _This can’t be real life._

He stares at the door to your quarters, remembering Natasha’s recent words. 

_“Okay, she’s not happy about it, but her pain is getting so severe that she agreed to try to- what did she say. . . ‘Assuage the symptoms’. A med team is prepping a move to her quarters - they’ll leave anything they think she might need there too, medicine, water, ice packs, whatever. No, we’ll disable all outside tech except for your phone. I’ll be on standby in case anything comes up. Yes, she knows you’ll be there. Don’t think about it too much, okay, Rogers? And please - take care of my friend.”_

Steve gingerly knocks on your door.

Nothing.

He knocks again.

Still nothing.

Opening the door, he takes a quick scan of your living room. The promised supplies were piled neatly next to the couch, but you were nowhere in sight. When he closes his eyes he could hear water moving through pipes.

A few quiet steps down the hallway to the cracked bathroom door confirms the shower running and your shallow breathing. 

Again, he pauses outside the door to contemplate what crossing that threshold will mean. A list of cause and effect begins to scroll in his mind before your muffled sob smashes that list to pieces.

He tongue stumbles over your name through the crack in the door, his tone rising in question.

“Steve?”

“I’m here.”

You sniff. “You can come in.”

Steady fingertips press into the door so it swings wide, revealing the rest of the small room - including you. Sitting in a corner, knees hugged to your chest, forehead resting on your arms. 

He can hear the tears in your voice when you say, “I thought a cold shower would help the fever but I couldn’t even get out of this stupid hospital gown they forced me into. You can turn it off.”

Obediently he turns the handles so the water stops flowing. Aside from your hitched breathing, the room is deafeningly silent.

Steve comes to a knee on the tile floor near you. Your hands shake where they grasp your legs.

“This is a stupid question, but how ya doing?”

Voice muted from being wrapped into yourself you say, “I’m in pain. Lots of pain.”

“Figured. Like I said, dumb question.”

A shuddering breath wracks your body. Steve leans forward with the intent to wrap you in his arms before pulling back at the memory of you shying away from him in the hospital room. He opens his mouth, closes it, before opening and closing it again. 

He settles on “Do you want me to leave?” but before he can get the whole sentence out, you surprise him.

“I f-feel vulnerable and I hate it.”

Steve knows a lot of things about you. You are strong. You are stubborn. You are a badass. And you hate lacking control.

He wants to wave his hand and have this horrible situation disappear. But he offers all that he has: “As long as you’re with me, you’re safe. I promise.”

Your trembling hand reaches out to him blindly and he grabs it, your feeble squeeze all the affirmation he anticipates receiving.

“I know it may feel like there’s not much of a choice here, but I promise you have one. If you want me to search out every other solution until it comes down to just me and you, I will.”

Your head knocks back against the wall. “How do you smell so fucking good when you’re being noble?” Your breath was ragged, eyes blood-shot and vacant. “I don’t think I can handle this much longer.”

“I will do everything I possibly can to make this painless. My only goal is for you to feel better. . . to feel good. We can start slow, take our time.”

His other hand joins your clasped ones and you gasp loudly.

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Steve, no, it’s getting worse and- I’m not scared of you, I’m scared that I don’t know what’s happening to my body and this isn’t how I wanted this to happen- I mean, I-“ your stutters give way to a wail as the hot pain intensifies. 

_Helpless. I’m utterly helpless._

“Tell me what you need from me.”

Hands jerking away from his and flying up to your face, you rub your eyes. “God, could this be any more mortifying? I was stupid to assume just because we kissed that- I’m _so_ sorry Steve, you don’t have to be here, I can figure this out by myself.” He could almost see the battle raging in your eyes.

“Hey, hey, look at me - I’m not going anywhere. Yeah, this situation is -“ his head bobs as he searches for the word. “-strange. But it is what it is. I’m here because I want to help you. So tell me what you need, point blank.”

“T-touch me.”

“Okay.” Feather light fingertips travel up your arms and around the back of your neck, massaging muscles. You practically melt in his hands, eyelashes fluttering at the sense of relief. His index finger wipes at the tears on your cheeks. 

“For the record,” he whispers, leaning in close. “This isn’t how I wanted this to happen either. But this is where we’re at. I want to take care of you. Can I kiss you?”

Your weak nod doesn’t leave him feeling overly confident, but he coaxes you close with his hands cradling your jaw. Your lips are sweeter than he remembered - softer, too. 

Ever so slightly, you relax beneath him. Encouraged, his strong fingers tangle in your hair and your own scramble to his wrists.

Minutes later you pull away from him panting. Steve notices a hint of focus has already returned to your eyes.

His hand finds yours and he turns it over, rolling his head to plant a delicate kiss to the delicate pulse of your wrist, crook of your elbow, top of your shoulder, side of your neck, before finally meeting your lips again, only to repeat the process on the other side. 

Despite your front teeth digging into your lip, a muffled moan still emerges. 

The beat of your heart is quicker in Steve’s ears and he wants to ask if it’s too much until he looks up from your wrist and catches the glint of desire in your eyes. The depth of it startles him. 

“Can I get you more comfortable?” he murmurs. 

With a nod, you reach for his neck as his hands land on your waist. Your legs unfurl as he hauls you against his chest; fingernails digging into his shirt you groan in pain, burying your face in Steve’s neck.

“Shh, I know. I’m sorry.” A hand comes up to rest against the back of your head, thumb stroking your hair. Trying not to jostle you, he takes painstakingly slow steps to your bedroom. “Need anything?”

“Just. . . more.”

Handling you as if you were marked ‘fragile’, he lays you atop your comforter. He follows you, knees finding their place on either side of your thighs, elbows holding his weight off of you. Taking him by surprise you grab the collar of his shirt and yank him down, throwing his balance. But when he lands on top of you, your sigh is one of relief, not of having a super-soldier body-slam you. 

“Need to feel you,” you breathe in explanation. Reaching for the tie of the hospital gown at the nape of your neck - the one you’d turned into a jumbled knot - your clumsy fingers tug, only making it worse. Frustration seeps from you, agitated movements making no progress.

Steve replaces your fingers with his and tears the tie. Before he’s tossed the gown over his shoulder and pulled off his own t-shirt, you’ve divested yourself of your bra.

Once you’re chest to chest again it registers with Steve how worryingly hot your skin is. He can’t discern if it’s the fever or your excitement but figures he can only help by forging ahead.

“Better?” he asks.

“Better.”

His hands scoop underneath you, fingertips pressing into your lower back to lift your hips ever so slightly as he presses his lips to your collarbone, your sternum, your tummy. 

“St-Steve,” you gasp, desperation coloring your tone as his digits come to rest along the waistband of your underwear. 

“You okay with this?”

You nod and he delicately pulls at the cotton garment saturated with sweat and desire. The smell overwhelms his senses for a moment before he remembers who is lying beneath him and why you’re here. Your arousal had never really been in question, especially not now that Steve was facing it directly. And he realized exactly how potent the sex pollen really could be. 

He refocuses with a kiss to your thigh before gliding his hands up your legs, settling on your waist. 

“Whaddya need now?”

“If you have to ask…” 

Looking up beneath his eyelashes warmth blooms in his chest at the twinkle in your eye, the slight upturn of your lips. There’s that sass that he loved. Part of him relaxes at this glimmer of the you he knows, the _you_ he cares for. It’s a reminder that you’re still here and hope isn’t lost. 

Then your face contorts in pain and his urgency returns. 

“I’ve got you,” he promises, nudging your legs open so he could settle between them.

He ventures tentative fingertips to your core, dragging a gasp and jolt from you. Dexterous fingers search for pleasure points as he takes note of your body’s reactions - the sighs, the moans, the delicious twitches. 

Blue eyes flick up to your face to find your eyelashes brushing your cheeks, enraptured in the bliss he’s bringing you. “I’ve never told you how beautiful you are, have I?” he kisses the crease where your hip meets your thigh.

Adding soft lips to his treatment immediately triggers your release that had been welling up for hours. Your body practically convulses as pleasure and relief course through you, kept grounded only by Steve’s strong hands on your hips. 

He gives you a few moments, gauging your gasps for air as expected, no cause for concern. The skin beneath his fingers feels slightly cooler than it had in the car all those hours ago.

“You need more or you want me to join you up there?”

An insistent tug on his hair prompts him to crawl up your body, peppering kisses along the way. 

“Thank you,” you utter throatily, eyes still closed. 

“You’re welcome.” He studies your features now that your muscles have unwound somewhat. Still flushed, still breathing heavily, but luminous as always. From the graceful curve of your neck to the cutest nose he’d ever seen, he mentally chides himself for taking so long to kiss you. “How’re you feeling?”

“Better. But I don’t think the nightmare is over.”

Bolstered, Steve says cheekily, “Sorry I’ve been such a nightmare.”

“You know what I mean”, you squint an eye open. 

He chuckles good-naturedly and rolls of the bed. “I’m getting you water, sit tight.” Returning with a bottled water and an ice pack in hand, you sit up to accept the beverage gratefully. Impressively, you guzzle half of it in one breath. It doesn’t escape his notice that you’d pulled your comforter up to cover yourself in his absence. His first instinct was to laugh, given what had just transpired. Under the circumstances he zeroed in on your fidgeting hands, the sudden tension in your body that had nothing to do with your physical condition. Your mind had cleared enough to come to a realization, he’d guess.

“Steve, I have to tell you something.”

“Okay.” He stands at the foot of the bed, acutely aware of how shirtless he was and how uncomfortable you were.

“Nat may have mentioned it, but. . . shit,” one hand wipes at the sweat on your forehead. “Why am I trying to be delicate about this, you told me to be direct.” Resolutely, your eyes meet his. “I haven’t had sex in a while because of an asshole ex. I associate it entirely with how he made me feel. The idea of being intimate makes me extremely emotional and anxious, as you’ve probably deduced. I don’t want you to feel guilty, because I know you and you’ll- ah, shit.” A hand flies to your lower belly as muscles spasm uncontrollably. 

He’s at your bedside in a snap, pressing the cold compress to the back of your neck. “It’s okay, it doesn’t have to be me. We can get creative and avoid it until-“

“It’s not about you, Steve and there’s no point in delaying the inevitable. I. . . I trust you.”

You’ve barely finished speaking when another wave of agony has you curled in a ball on your side, facing away from Steve. Subconsciously he follows your movement, kneeling on the bed to hover over you. 

“You sure about that?”

“Oh Steve, I’m sure, it hurts like hell. Ahh!” You curl into yourself tighter, tears springing to your eyes. 

“Okay, alright, easy.” He lands a kiss to your temple as he slips beneath the sheets behind you, molding his body against yours. Testing the waters, he presses his hand firmly against your stomach, hoping the pressure would ease the ache. It only results in you attempting to jerk away - until his hand slides south to your silky center, then you’re canting back into him. A few recently-educated strokes later and you’ve unwound enough for him to offer some measure of comfort. 

“Cap, I didn’t even ask if you were okay with this,“ you gasp. “You might not even want me-“

“That’s not an issue, darlin’.” With intent he grinds his hips into you, erasing all doubt from your mind on that topic.

“O-oh. Okay. Can’t do anything with pants on, though.”

Steve is grateful you can’t see the blush of his cheeks as he pulls away to wriggle out of his jeans and boxers. He presses into you once more, hands rubbing soothing circles over your arms. Your simpering sends a thrill through his veins for which he immediately feels remorse. Here you are in the most vulnerable state imaginable, dependent on him and in pain, and he’s embarrassingly turned on. You’d been right - he felt guilty. 

But he’s a man on a mission and not one to be sidetracked for long.

As he grabs your thigh and eases it over his own leg, he feels the muscles in it tense and flex. 

Positioning his length against your center, reality washes over him like a bucket of cold water. It must’ve had the same effect on you; your breathing hitches in a different way and Steve pauses to look down at you. Eyes squeezed shut, hands fisted so tightly your knuckles are white. 

As if you could feel his gaze, you quiver with an “It’s okay.”

 _It’s not_ , Steve thinks, but now wasn’t the time. 

Achingly slow, Steve pushes himself inside you, taking several moments to stop before resuming. You begin to shake in a way that breaks his heart. 

Then your lack of breathing registers.

Alarmed, he freezes. “You gotta take a breath, okay, sweetheart? Can’t have you passing out on me.” The rise and fall of your back against his chest relieves some of the anxiety. But the rigidity in your body made him fear you could snap and break at any given moment. “That’s it, in and out. You remember that time when Sam got drunk and tried to prove he could hold his breath longer than Bucky and he blacked out?”

A _whoosh_ of breath escapes your mouth in what he thinks may have been a laugh. 

“To be fair, Bucky did tell him it wasn’t a good idea. But you know how confident Sam gets after his fourth drink.”

“‘Like a privileged white guy applying for a job he’s not qualified for’, I believe Sam said.” The coherent sentence helps urge along Steve’s own laughter. “Keep going, Stevie.”

Agonizing seconds later, you’re fully joined. Steve lets out a harsh sigh at how perfectly you fit together, the ecstasy of being with someone he deeply cared for - deeper than he was ready to admit. He’d imagined this before - he was only human after all, no matter how enhanced - but this exceeded anything he could have dreamed up.

Steve shakes his head. _This isn’t about you. This is about her._

He tunes in to your body - skin still feverish, heart racing, the tremors in your arms and legs have yet to cease - and that’s when he sees the tears.

Empathy manifests as an ache in his chest, so he pulls you impossibly closer. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers mournfully. 

“I should be the one who’s sorry. I’m a real drag,” you laugh bitterly, face pressed into a pillow. “Isn’t rule number one not crying during sex?”

“You don’t owe me anything - least of all an apology. Also, fuck rules.”

You’re breathing - albeit shakily - but Steve will take it. He wants to fix this. He wants to chase away the horrible thoughts running through your mind. He wants you to relax. But he stays quiet. Lets you think, lets you adjust.

A grunt of discomfort has you reaching for his hand and cradling it to your chest. Your fingers work over his, pressing against callouses, over raised scars. If he didn’t know any better, he’d think you were committing his hand to memory, mapping out every contour - perhaps as a reminder of who was holding you.

“I’m here,” he felt the need to reiterate. Allowing himself an impulsive moment, he leans down and kisses a tear drop off your cheek. “You’re safe with me.” You nod and clutch his fingers. 

Aiming for a distraction, he lets his lips wander along your neck, humming an unknown tune between tender kisses.

“You wanna know the very moment I knew I liked you?” 

Your head rolls back to him and he takes that as a yes. 

“We’d only had a handful of conversations and I was pretty sure you thought I was boring-“ 

You twist, face in outrage as you start to interrupt.

“This is my moment, not yours. I’m the one with the eidetic memory.” He continues with an affectionate kiss to your nose. “We were gathering intel in that little town in Arkansas. We’d separated on foot when the sun went down, in our civvies to not attract attention. I was heading to a bar and you were assigned to the diner where the weapons cache ended up being.

“I’d taken the long way around to get a feel for the neighborhood when I saw you again - not where you were supposed to be.” He surreptitiously finds your pulse again, pleased at the steady thrum beneath his fingers. “You’d stopped in front of a house, I couldn’t see anything special about it. Thinking you could’ve been in trouble I stayed in the shadows to watch. Five kids poured out of a minivan in the driveway, all swarming the mom who looked like she was about to pull her hair out.

“You asked if there was any way you could help and I swear that woman was going to kiss you. While somehow keeping all of the kids entertained with some wild story about superheroes they insisted was made up - of course you and I know it was absolutely true - you also grabbed two arms-full of groceries and got them inside the house. Mom had only gotten the baby out of the car seat by the time you’d corralled the kids and emptied the car. The mixture of disbelief and wonder on her face made me smile. She asked you in for dinner, you told her a friend was expecting you at the diner. . . and you walked on.”

He looks down and finds your eyebrows scrunched in confusion. “You like me because I’m a sucker?”

Laughter rumbles in his chest. “No,” he chides. “Because you have a kind heart. That night, you had every reason to keep walking. You were on the job, you were a stranger, it was none of your business, you had nothing to gain. But you saw someone in need and didn’t hesitate to lend a hand. That moment confirmed feelings I’d been denying for a while. But that’s when I knew for sure.”

“Steve. . .” Fingers release his hand and curl behind his neck. 

“I know, I'm not usually this big of a big sap-”

Your kiss surprises him to say the least. He wasn’t about to fight it.

But the kiss is interrupted by a hiss from you - a new ache prickling your nerves. “Move, please move..”

“Okay, okay, we’ll go slow. Do your best to relax, sweetheart. I know it’s difficult - there you go, you’re doing great.”

He establishes a light rhythm, more of a roll of his hips against yours, exercising every bit of self control he had and then some. But your silence made him uneasy. “Is this helping at all? Or am I just making it worse?”

“No, no,” your fingers dig into his forearm wrapped around your middle. “Don’t stop. It’s fading. Feels good.”

Together you move in tandem. Slowly - finally - your groans turn to moans, your gasps into sweet little hums imprinted in Steve’s mind for the rest of his days. 

On a whim his hand wanders between your legs, searching for the sweet spot that had unraveled you earlier. He knows he’s found it when your back arches away from him suddenly, your whimper giving every indication of pleasure, void of pain. 

“That feel good?” he whispers against your neck. An errant thought runs through him that your fever may be contagious, because he can’t help the words that fall from his mouth next. “You’re doing so good, honey. So soft and sweet, brave and tough. Better than the rest of us put together. Wanna help you feel better, get this out of you.”

His name has never sounded sweeter than nestled between your sighs and keening. 

Steve murmurs your name and you twist just enough to look up at him. “Let go. I’ve got you.” After half a second you lean up, chasing his lips, craving him as much as he was craving you. 

For several beautiful moments, the world ceases to spin on its axis. Bliss rampages through every cell in Steve’s body, catching him completely off-guard. This moment was 1,000% better than his wildest dreams. If your writhing were any indication, you were experiencing the same rapture in your own veins.

His forehead drops to your shoulder, panting in surprise at the force of his release. In hindsight, he took far too long to become lucid. His only comfort was that you were just as blissed out as he was.

Leaning up on an elbow, he brushes hair off your forehead, fingernails scratching ever-so-gently into your scalp.

“You okay?”

You exhale heavily. “Mhmmmm. You seem okay too,” this statement laced with alacrity. 

“I, uh- sorry, I didn’t mean to-“

“Glad you enjoyed it, too, Rogers.” You laugh as he rolls his eyes to the heavens. 

“Yeah, yeah.”

“Steve?” Your voice is quiet. 

He hums. 

“I’m-“ you stop abruptly. Steve feels you shudder and he sits up, taking you with him. 

“Are you in pain again? Did I do something wrong?” His hands frame your face and he looks for signs of distress. 

You’re weeping but it doesn’t seem to be caused by any physical symptom.

“Thank you,” you manage to choke out. Reaching up to lightly grab his wrists, you absentmindedly stroke a thumb along his pulse. 

He shushes you and pulls you into his chest with a gentle hand to the back of your head. “Don’t mention it.” Inhaling through his nose nestled in your hair, he rocks you back and forth for a few moments. 

“Thank you for having my back.”

“It’s nothing you wouldn’t have done for me.” He feels his shoulder dampen as you continue to sniffle. 

“Thanks for not being scared of my broken pieces.”

“Hey, you’re not broken. You’re a lot of things. Thoughtful, kind, smart, funny, empathetic. But not broken.”

“Are you trying to add ‘a sobbing mess’ to that list?”

He chuckles, “No. But how about ‘girlfriend’?”

Silence. 

Regretting his words as you pull back from him, he braces himself for rejection. 

“Steven Grant Rogers, that is one of the worst lines I’ve ever heard.”

And then you’re laughing and laughing and - yeah, still laughing. He can’t help but join in. 

“Is that a no?”

“It’s not a no. You can take me to dinner.” You wince again and your hand flies to your stomach. “Fuck, I thought this was over.”

“Doc said the pollen could stay in your system for a bit. But we got this. Dr. Cho’s team left some food, water, and meds for us in the meantime.” He leans down to catch your eye. “We’ve got this.”

Your head bobs up and down, the look of total desolation that had been on your face all evening slipping away. “Yeah, we’ve got this.”

And you truly believed it.


End file.
